8. Theodora
8
THEODORA
LONDON
RHYOLITE: Ignites potential, creativity, acceptance of true self, past-life healing
M orning breaks, and showers dampen the doorstep of the quaint hotel I’m staying at near Victoria Station . It’s nothing like the heavy downpours and flash flooding of Melbourne . Here , rain sprays in a fine steady stream until the streets gleam with a silvery glow. While London shines like a new coin, I’m keen to visit the Victoria and Albert Museum .
After checking Buckingham Palace and the Tower of London off my bucket list, I hail an iconic black London cab on a whim. The cabbies here are full of information—and cheaper than a private tour guide. Mine hardly draws a breath.
‘—the V it’s about restoring and grounding myself.
I relish the spark of inspiration after viewing the intricate designs in the European rooms. A series of motifs and patterns quickly appears on the pages. It feels decadent and frivolous to pursue whatever form of creativity takes my fancy. I make a promise to say ‘yes’ to anything on offer while I’m away. How unlike me. My creative juices flow until the last of my free time whittles away.
The group reunites and travels the short distance to the Clothworkers ’ Centre , a grand nineteenth-century building of Portland stone with bricks in a pinkish hue. We gather outside a wrought-iron fence topped with fleurs-de-lis finials, ready for the next part of the tour.
There’s collective excitement as the women chatter and point with mouths open to the gold tracks of modern lighting. The crisp fit-out of glass and white café-style tiles offers an edgy contemporary contrast to the building’s stern Edwardian Baroque exterior.
I’m delighted when Rosie appears in the foyer. With a cheeky wink, she touches a finger to her lips and side-eyes a man nearby. He must be her supervisor. Subterfuge is an old game of hers.
‘ Good afternoon, ladies, I’m Rosie Farrelly , a curator here at the Clothworkers . If you would like to follow me, I have some marvellous pieces to discuss.’
She sets off for the seminar room at a lively pace, with her scarlet heels clicking the parquetry and blonde curls bouncing on her shoulders.
I hurry to catch up, slightly ahead of the group. ‘ Hi , I’m Theodora .’ I play along, ‘ Have you worked here long?’
‘ Ever since we started running the study tours.’ Rosie raises her eyebrows along with her tone. ‘ But I’ve been with the V and A for a few years now. I’m also involved in specific research projects for studies on tapestries and textiles. But more about that later.’ She darts a glance in the supervisor’s direction.
In the meeting room assigned for our visit, a large screen overhead displays the famed Tristan Quilt . Several pieces of embroidered boutis are stretched between frames and illuminated on a large table in the centre of the room.
‘ You’ll no doubt recognise the Tristan Quilt on our screen, and I’ll explain its history in depth. Move in closer, ladies.’ Rosie looks to the screen overhead for her presentation. The magnified image shows rudimentary figures on a cream background outlined in brown thread.
It’s nothing like I imagined. Instead of Tristan and Isolde , each frame of the design focuses on Tristan’s journey and the battle.
‘ Ms Farrelly ? When did the V and A acquire the quilt?’ Doris gushes with excitement.
‘ According to our records, it was purchased in 1904 via a Florentine antiquarian who was acting for an industrialist raising support for Italy’s prime minister at the time, and who was a known progressive in terms of social reform. He sought to lift the standard of labour conditions for the ordinary Italian worker, and, in particular, for women and children. Fitting , don’t you think, considering the hours the quilt would have taken to construct?’
‘ I’ll say.’ Doris smiles and turns to me. ‘ Would’ve taken months of needlework.’
‘ Now as I was saying…’ Rosie’s face lights up, ‘research of this quilt aligns with the purchase of another in 1927 which is held by the Bargello museum in Florence . The Florentine quilt is known as the Coperta di Usella , after the village it came from. Has anyone heard of it?’
‘ Theodora is going to work on that coperta.’ Doris clucks like a proud aunt. ‘ She has an internship, haven’t you, dear?’
Eyes are drawn towards me and I wriggle on the spot. I can’t imagine the divine treasures I’ll see in Florence , a city renowned for an abundance of art and culture. Magnificent Renaissance paintings and sculptures I’ve only dreamt of….
The supervisor glances up from his notebook, appraising me with new interest.
‘ That’s fantastic news,’ Rosie touches her glasses, ‘perhaps we can catch up to speak about it further?’
I avoid her eyes. It’s hard not to giggle.
‘ Textile historians suggest both the Coperta di Usella and the Tristan Quilt were originally part of a larger work. Arthurian legends were a popular trope during medieval times. Each panel depicts the story of Tristan and his knightly deeds, and a specific stage of his battle against Morholt . There are no duplicate panels on either quilt, which indicates they might have originally been joined as one…’
I think of Gran’s book, and the illustrations of the couple in the tale, and a fluttering sensation curls inside me.
‘ The quilts date to the late fourteenth century and were constructed of linen and cottons, probably traded by sea routes through Egypt , China and India . The atelier was likely in the region now known as Sicily —the Kingdom of Naples .’
I’m tempted to see more of Italy while at the OPD . The allure of the Italian lifestyle—the climate, the culture, and taste of food grown in the fertile earth. The enticing fragrance of centuries of antiquities and their secrets….
Suddenly , the scent of lemons wafts around me. I continue taking notes, but the citrus perfume is intoxicating, as if it actually exists. A man and a woman sip limoncello made with lemons kissed by golden sunshine. I know instinctively the woman is me. The sun warms my face as I laugh at a man across a table. Twirling forkfuls of pasta into our mouths, we savour the flavours of homegrown vegetables and spices on each other’s lips, and then make love under the stars, high on a hill on a moonlit night….
The vision has such clarity that I have to stifle my moan with a cough. Where is this coming from? I blink it away and fan my face with my sketchbook.
Thankfully , Rosie’s volume is on the rise…
‘…and commissioned as a wedding gift for a diplomatic marriage. Earlier in the fourteenth century, the region was in dispute. The symbolism in the panels, and on Tristan and Morholt’s shields, references the political undercurrents between two prominent Florentine families. The Kingdom of Naples , was ruled by the Angevins or Anjou , while the Spanish Aragonese ruled the island of Sicily? —’
The supervisor glares and shakes his head.
Rosie changes tack. ‘ The social and political background is interesting, but I won’t go into that.’ She hardly draws a breath. ‘ Later , the family inventories state the possession of three Sicilian wall-hangings with heraldic arms?—’
‘ I imagine they were used for insulation.’ The lady opposite me nods, rubbing her hands together. ‘ Those castle walls would’ve been icy.’
The group nod with interest as Rosie continues and pushes her violet-rimmed glasses to the bridge of her nose. ‘ The third piece may be in a private collection. However , it’s most likely been lost or destroyed over the centuries.’
‘ And what about this type of stitching?’ Doris asks, beside me.
I move closer to the screen. Magnified images show the vibrancy of differing shades of white, cream and taupe that have developed with the age of the quilt.
‘ The method is known as trapunto , meaning to quilt or embroider in Italian . Trapunto makes the figures stand out, or pop, so to speak. The relief of the figures is exaggerated using padded pieces of cotton wadding. Then stitches here outline the profiles in muted amber and sometimes brown thread. In this panel, we clearly see the technique used for the horses and the figures of Tristan and Morholt .
‘ The Kingdom of Naples was a cultural centre and home to the finest ateliers of trapunto work. The Tristan Quilt is in keeping with similar white textiles attributed to the rulers of the House of Anjou .’ Rosie points to those on display before us.
‘ When you say rulers of Anjou , do you mean Eleanor of Aquitaine and Richard the Lionheart ?’ A dark-haired woman frowns.
‘ Eleanor had them troubadours in her court,’ another lady interrupts with a grin. ‘ Minstrels that sang of knights an’ courtly love an’ saving fair maidens. Can you imagine it?’ Several look misty-eyed at the hint of romance.
‘ There’s no doubt that due to Eleanor’s influence Arthurian legends increased in popularity.’ Rosie nods eagerly. ‘ But the Tristan Quilt was made some two hundred years after Eleanor of Aquitaine . Still —what better tale to replicate than one concerning a well-known Arthurian hero? A perfect wedding gift as a testament to the notion of chivalry and true love.’
She works the room, her face animated and glowing, her hands waving like wands.
‘ Of course, it’s worth mentioning that the panels only display Tristan’s victory in battle and the celebration of his return to Cornwall . His deeds before the love story. There are no scenes of the lovers together—despite the placement of various women around the border—which is interesting if you consider the possibility of its use on a marital bed.’
Rosie points to the screen and zooms in closer. ‘ Look at this knight here on the left.’
‘ Shame I never seen no knight of me own, charging down the High Street .’ A tall septuagenarian looks at the group with a smirk, ‘but I’d be lying to say I wouldn’t wrap him in a quilt and toss him on my bed if I did!’
I smother a giggle.
‘ If a knight saw you coming, Vera , he’d button up his armour and hightail it into the sunset!’ A friend slaps at her forearm. ‘ No point wasting his jousting skills on you!’
The whole room bursts into laughter. Their sense of humour reminds me of my oldies at home. Chatter and excitement rings through the building as they leave, the collective aglow with all they’ve learnt. I wave goodbye and hang back to wait for Rosie .
Decorative arts have influenced and educated us for centuries. They’ve recorded stories and history, served a purpose, and aligned political supporters. The hand-worked traditions displayed here are proof. How many hands have handled them over the past seven centuries?
A little lightheaded and brimming with questions, I feel like I’ve been bingeing on fizzy drinks and chocolate.
‘ I can’t believe you’re here!’ Rosie sneaks up behind me and hooks her arm through mine. ‘ I’m sorry for the cloak and dagger, but Janson is assessing me. I didn’t want him catching on that we knew each other. We had a bit of a thing a while back, and I wasn’t sure how he’d react.’
‘ So that was him.’ I laugh. ‘ You should have warned me. Never mind, I don’t think anyone noticed.’
‘ Forget him now. I want you to fill me in on what’s happened with Luke . Bitch away….’
We continue our reunion at a fashionable gin bar nearby. Nestled into a booth in the corner, I have a great view of the entrance and embrace the mood. People burst through the doors, shrugging off the week’s concerns and laughing as they welcome friends. The smoky scent of burning wood wafts from a potbelly fire nearby, and I relish the warmth. I’m settling into this new experience more easily than I anticipated.
It's Rosie’s favourite bar, and I see why. Our drinks arrive in pretty china cups, poured from dainty teapots, and the herbaceous fragrances of juniper and basil, rosemary and thyme have a grounding effect. According to the blurb on the menu, gin culture is all about mastering the right blend of botanicals. It becomes more of a theme as an image comes to me of Star wandering through Gran’s garden.
‘ Are you okay, lovely, after Luke’s confession?’ Rosie covers my hand. ‘ You must have been shocked. The cheek of him!’
‘ I’m glad of the distance, to be honest. But I don’t understand what he can be thinking. He says he’ll leave once the baby’s born. How could anyone do that?’
I take a sip and let the gin’s slow release soothe my irritation.
‘ Look , maybe it’s time to just enjoy yourself while you’re here and focus on you for once. There’s more to life than Luke . Who knows, a handsome Italian might catch your eye in Florence ! Now , that would do you good….’
The hint of a frown flickers across her face. Rosie has never been entirely sure about Luke . I think it’s more about her protecting me. Time to change the subject.
‘ Hey , I can’t wait to see how the Coperta di Usella compares…’
Rosie takes my hint. ‘ It’s been five years since conservation began on it.’
‘ To be honest, I can’t imagine why they’re bringing me in now it’s so close to completion.’
As we discuss the various treatments in use, I feel a stab of uncertainty.
‘ You’ll be great,’ she reassures in her usual manner, ‘but they must have a plan for you—otherwise they wouldn’t have assigned you at this stage. Alex said they’ve had quite a number of conservators with differing abilities over the past five years.’
‘ Alex ? Oh , you mean Janson ? He certainly was watching you closely….’
‘ Hmmm ,’ her face flushes, ‘ I’m not surprised. He’s a wee bit intense.’
I take a sip of my drink. The people at the next booth are laughing so loud it’s infectious. I turn back to Rosie , and we roll our eyes like we’re twenty again.
‘ Are you seeing anyone now?’
Rosie’s fair skin colours. She’s had her own share of dramas in love. ‘ No one since Alex .’
‘ How long were you together?’
‘ A few months. He was a bit of a loose cannon in the end. Seems I’m attracted to Neanderthals , but I’m not sure hairy brutes are my type.’
‘ Might be time you changed your type then—and not someone you work with!’
Rosie laughs. ‘ Look at the two of us. There’s so much more to talk about than bloody men!’
‘ You can say that again.’ I top up her cup. ‘ I have to say, London has been fabulous. I can’t believe I’ve never travelled before.’
‘ Luke was so career-driven you never had the opportunity.’ Her tone is pointed.
‘ Yes , and then after everything happened, I had Gran to think about.’
‘ I can imagine how much you miss her.’ Her gaze doesn’t waver. ‘ She’ll always hold a special place in your heart, lovely. I know it was tough for you as a child, with just the two of you.’
I recall sitting in class, listening to school friends talk about their weekends; the sports they played, the places they visited. I did nothing like that. Gran loved me in her own protective way. I’m sure of it. But apart from her quilting classes she was a bit of a loner. And if the subject strayed to anything too personal, she twisted the conversation back to the news, or her garden—nothing deep or sensitive.
It was all I knew. My childhood was vastly different from my friends’. Inviting them home wasn’t frowned upon, but it was never encouraged either. Our home was measured and quiet. With just the two of us, we didn’t have parties or family gatherings. Until Luke .
‘ Gran meant the world to me. But discussing the past was off limits. She lost so much when mum died. Her only child.’
‘ Wouldn’t you think she’d have wanted to talk about her, to keep your mum’s memory alive? Especially since you both had lost her….’ Rosie’s eyes mist behind her glasses.
‘ I have so many questions I wish I’d asked. Plus , I’m having these strange dreams again.’
‘ Intriguing …shall we order another round, lovely?’ Rosie gestures to the bar.
‘ I won’t bore you with the details, but the dreams—or nightmares—have raised questions. Like a message prompting me to act. I know Gran’s ancestors were from Cornwall , and I’d like to learn more about them. I’m going to head down there before I leave for Florence .’
‘ Sounds like a mystery lurking in the darkness. Go on then.’
I tell her about Amelia’s diary. Star was right. It makes interesting reading. Despite her inner turmoil, I sense a strength in Amelia that sparks resilience in me too. Tiny steps. I’m alone on an adventure; the thought both surprises and frightens me.
‘ Cornwall is a fascinating part of the country. Tell me your plans and I’ll help find you a tour guide.’
‘ I thought I’d start near Penzance ––’
‘ Fabulous !’ Rosie claps her hands. ‘ I’m opening an exhibition close by in Marazion next weekend. From there you could go to St Michael’s Mount too. It’s a tidal island off the coast.’
Rosie’s English accent has returned, further affected when she drinks and rounds out plummy vowels to over-enunciate each word. She’s speaking so fast I can barely keep up.
‘ And there’s so much to see—beautiful walks and coastline. It’s the land of pirates and smugglers—and our hero, of course!’ Her eyes twinkle in the moody lighting.
Back at my hotel I check my phone to find a missed call from Luke . It’s early morning in Melbourne . I’ll call him back tomorrow. First Cornwall and then Italy . Thoughts of Luke slide back in my plans.
I’ve had a marvellous day and feel light and uninhibited when I close my eyes in the dark. As I drift into a heavenly veil of sleep, I’m surrounded by the smell of damp sand and seaweed, and with brackish saltiness on my tongue. Seagulls caw overhead and the warm sea breeze blows across my face. Water laps at my toes on the shoreline and waves splash my legs—my feet curl and grip tight into coarse grains of sand. The long skirt I’m wearing is wet and heavy, and I laugh into an onshore wind when the fabric twists tight and coils around my ankles. A raven-haired man takes my hand. You’re here at last, he whispers. My chest stings and I catch my breath. I’ll never let you go….